The Kunai Like Me
by Leviticus Lied
Summary: I like Aniki. Aniki likes his kunai. Aniki says that his kunai like me very, very much. Onesided?Itasuke, not sure if this is T or M, so read with care. Not Uchiha clan death angst, for once.


Well, in the last week, I've grown obsessed with Itachi and Sasuke. This is, I think, a romance, and maybe a little angst. It is violent in a quiet sort of way, and masochism despite by best efforts.

I wanted this to be pretty, and fragile. Please, it 'T' is not the correct rating, tell me and i will change it to 'M', but it's definitely between those two.

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**The Kunai Like Me**

I like Aniki. Aniki likes kunai. Aniki says that his kunai like me very, very much.

That is acceptable to me. That his kunai like me, I mean. Aniki is very close to his kunai - he sharpens them every day, he carries them everywhere, I've counted at least thirty hidden in his battle outfit at any one moment - and, if he says that things so very close to his heart can like me, it's almost, almost like Aniki liking me himself. So that is enough.

There is a price for the kunai liking me so very much, but it is also acceptable. The price is my body and, piece by flawlessly carved piece, my soul. But it means that Aniki is paying attention to me.

The blade of this kunai is special. Its edge, its deadly, cutting edge, is transparent. It has very recently been set to the grindstone. I know this kunai well, because it is the one that Aniki likes the very best - it is the one with which he made his first kill, his first distinctive victory. It honors and fulfills me to feel it tracing a careful, loving line of sanguine life from my hipbone up to my sixth rib. This is an old scar, one that will never close;when Aniki comes at night, he reopens this very first, very poignant scar every single time without fail.

It is his mark. It is his way of showing me that the kunai, at least, still love me. They love me enough to touch me everywhere, to trace shallow, intricate patterns into the flesh of my back and the very soft, sensitive spot behind my ear that I wish Aniki would clean off with his tongue.

His visits always leave me sticky and drying, with uncomfortable questions from my friends. 'Sasuke, did you trim your hair? It's sticking back with so many uneven points.' Why, yes, I did it myself. Do you like it? The blood wouldn't come out because I couldn't walk to the shower right away, and it dries fast, trust me. Would you like to see the waste bin in my bathroom, with the crusted remains of my hair?

I have a certain fondness for my hair. I used to want to grow it out to be like Aniki's, but that will never happen if I have to trim a quarter inch every other week. Now the shortness and softness of it reminds me of all the shampoo and conditioner I use, trying to get the blood out. It reminds me of Aniki's expression as he licks the steady drops of my life from the blade of his beloved kunai. And it's only ever blood, mind you - Aniki doesn't love me, emotionally or physically.

Tonight is a night. It is _the_ night; my scar has almost healed. Aniki will be back to open it, and to give me marks of the kunai's love again. And here he is, covered in darkness andmystery and I love him with a chest-constricting fear. That is definitely not a kunai he holds. It is a shuriken; larger than a handheld knife, these things are usually thrown or used defensively.

And the rope comes out. I hold out my hands obediently, now more than ever, because I know what is coming and I know what I have to prove to him. I am tied fast to the sturdy, motionless ceiling fan. Mother always asked me why I wanted something like that, if I never use it. Now you have your answer, Mother.

It is my whipping post.

"Otouto," Aniki breathes, and I shiver even though he's across the room again. It might be because I am nude, but I don't think so, because the shiver subsides as the whisper fades. It comes back and his deep voice rumbles, "My shuriken likes you as well tonight. You return its feelings, of course."

His flat, emotionless voice makes me unsure if it was meant as a question or a statement of fact, so I am unsure whether I should respond. If it is a question, I will have to speak and give consent, no matter my misgivings and dread of the coming pain. If it is a statement, and I speak in error, Aniki will be unhappy. And so would the shuriken.

I say nothing, instead squeezing my eyes closed and tensing my body in preparation for the expected blow.

He laughs, or scoffs, a single suggestion of humor. I don't hear himmove, but now he's behind me and I can feel the cold press of the first of the shuriken's blades. "Will this be the night when you scream for me? Will you make a sound for me?"

My teeth come out to cover my lower lip. I have to prove that I am strong enough for him to trust me in a battle, to let me face someone else without fear for my safety.

He starts to push, leaning with all his weight. I'm not sure how many pounds per inch of pressure will part human skin, but whatever he is exerting is doing the job.

I will say this now; no matter how sharp the blade, without even the slightest sawing motion or friction, a blade entering the skin causes a person blinding, all-encompassing pain. Inside this pain there is only me, the blade, and Aniki's presence just six inches or less behind me. There is no lying to myself, no telling myself that this is enough; it won't ever be enough until Aniki is the one touching me, instead of his weapons.

The shuriken, basically a four-spoked wheel without the outer edge, is rotated. The first blade digs in deeper than before, while the next is pressed just as bluntly and in a new area. As my body produces endorphins against the pain, oh, blessed endorphins that numb the skin and let my mind wander, the shuriken is rotated again, so that the third edge is on the curve of my buttocks and it is being pressed in again.

Now I make my first noise, slurred through the blood that has come from biting my lip. "Aniki," I gasp, but it is so quiet he doesn't notice. He certainly doesn't stop the turn, the push of the fourth blade on the back of my thigh and the horrible, wonderful pain as it blossoms. So I take the pain and the fear and the unadulterated longing and I make it into courage in my heart and I say, "I love you."

The shuriken drops to the floor, joining the growing pool of blood that runs from the first scar and the cuts on my back and legs. On the way it has a minor exchange with my calf, which, as one might imagine, doesn't do my calf very much good at all.

There is a silence in the aftermath of the loud clatter of the hated thing. This is the silence of shock. It has all the possibility of turning good or bad, but until it is decided I stay standing there in my own pure Uchiha blood with my hands above my head.

He spits, "Don't ever, ever say that again." As he leaves through the window, he lets a kunai fly true and straight and it cuts through my bonds. I sink to my knees, dead to feeling and the world and _oh god he hates me._

I stay there, the blood drying, and I think (with the barest hint of detached lunacy) that I won't have to cut my hair tomorrow morning.

The next morning Aniki isn't in the house. Neither are my parents, and I should notice, but Aniki isn't there and nothing matters because he hates me.

The kunai he threw, to cut me down? It's still in the wall, its edges so thin and fresh and sharp that they are transparent. He gave me his favorite blade. Or he wanted his kunai, that liked my breath and my skin oh-so-very much, to be with me forever. It certainly wasn't any mistake. Aniki doesn't make mistakes, not with his weapons.

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Years later, I am in the heat of battle. Well, sparing, at least. Against one Uzumaki Naruto, probably the second strongest ninja I have ever fought. The first being, of course, my Aniki.

I have, at last count, thirty-three various kunai and shuriken stashed in pockets and up sleeves and tucking the hem of my shorts. Only one matters; the blade sewn on my shirt, facing the skin covering my withered heart and honed fresh to a transparently sharp blade.

My hair is still short and I trim it every few weeks, the same night I reopen an old wound from my hip to my sixth rib.

Aniki, if you're reading this, I've finally figured it out. You tortured me, I understand this. You hurt me and you tried to deter me, because you saw, somehow, that I loved you. You did everything you could to make me hate you, to make me hate this way of life, because it's going to kill me someday.

Aniki, my Aniki, I love you, I love you so much that it hurts when you're not the one punishing me for it.

Come back. I need to kill you to make this hurting stop. I won't be able to do it, but maybe, just maybe, when we meet and we fight, you'll kill me instead and the pain will be done with anyway.

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I wrote this becauseI wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I could write something this violent and have it not turn into crazy sadomasochistic incestual love (hmm, neat thought?) or something that's a battle. I wanted it to have meaning, and be sincere.

Please review, I'm not sure how this turned out.


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